Above the Waterfall by Ron Rash Page A

warm a chair, Sheriff. I’ve got coffee enough for the three of us.”
    â€œYou go ahead and finish that coffee,” I said. “You and me need to go to the courthouse.”
    â€œWhat for?” Gerald asked, his head tilting slightly, brow furrowed.
    â€œIt’s just a misunderstanding,” Becky said, taking Gerald’s free hand. “Someone poured kerosene into Locust Creek and killed a lot of trout.”
    â€œAt the park?” Gerald asked.
    â€œNo,” Becky said. “On Tucker’s property, above the waterfall.”
    â€œAnd they think I done it?” Gerald asked after a few moments.
    â€œThey’ve got you on video, Gerald,” I said. “Let’s go.”
    â€œI never dumped anything in that creek,” Gerald stammered.
    â€œI know that,” Becky told him, her other hand on his forearm now. “It’ll get cleared up soon, it will.”
    The porcelain cup slipped from Gerald’s hand. Coffee splashed on the porch but the cup didn’t shatter.
    â€œBecky,” Gerald said, shaking his head as he spoke. “I’d not hurt them trout. You know that.”
    The helicopter must have seen my patrol car, because as I stepped onto the porch it skimmed over the last trees, raising dust and buffeting our clothes.
    â€œWe’ve got to go,” I shouted.
    I went and took Gerald’s free arm. Becky and I gothim down the steps as grit lifted, stinging our eyes. The brown cloud thickened, gained twigs and pebbles. A plastic bag flapped against my leg, then gusted away. Coughing, Becky and I guided Gerald with one hand while shielding our eyes with the other. Gerald stumbled and almost caused us all to fall. The helicopter kept descending as if trying to drag the sky itself down upon us.
    I got the back passenger door open and helped Gerald inside. As I did, Gerald slapped at his shirt pocket and Becky scrambled into the backseat. She cradled his head and took the pill bottle from his overalls pocket. She opened it, pressed a tablet into Gerald’s mouth, then one more. Dust had powdered Becky’s face and now tears streaked pale rivulets down her cheeks. I got in, turned on the blue light, and sped toward the hospital.
    â€œPlease, Gerald,” Becky shouted, “please.”
    He’s going to die right in front of her, I thought , glancing in the rearview mirror as we passed the resort.
    â€œTell me you’re okay,” Becky kept pleading, “at least open your eyes.”
    As we turned off the Parkway and headed toward town, Gerald responded, and the next time I glanced in the mirror much of the ashy grayness had left his face.
    â€œYou’re going to be okay, Gerald,” Becky kept saying, again and again.
    Yes, he will , I thought when the hospital came in sight, and I wondered if in the coming days Gerald, and maybe all of us, would wish Becky hadn’t given him the nitro tablets, and that he’d died in the arms of the one person left on earth who loved him.

Twenty
    The day of Grandmother’s funeral, I’d entered the farmhouse alone. Sepia and mote drift, her absence all luster now gone. The sadness of a bowl left on a counter, a pair of reading glasses beside a chair. Something of that as I enter Gerald’s house. But Gerald will return. The EKG fine, the overnight stay just precaution. I didn’t lock up the house , Gerald mumbled as the IV drip eased him asleep. Everything inside looks okay, so I close the door and twist the key until the lock clicks.
    Jarvis Crowe’s patrol car is parked in Gerald’s driveway. He searches where Gerald’s pasture borders resort property. He’ll check the barn, if he already hasn’t, and find the kerosene can. But it will not be empty, I assure myself. If you go to the barn and check, you doubt Gerald too. Instead, I take the canning jar I brought with me to the springhouse. The dipper dangles from a cherry tree limb. The best